


We Could be the Greatest

by bienenalster (pinkspider)



Category: Historical RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Pacific Rim AU, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-07-28 19:59:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7654675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkspider/pseuds/bienenalster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thanks to Pax for proofing.</p>
    </blockquote>





	We Could be the Greatest

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Wir könnten die Größten sein](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5065291) by [apfelhalm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apfelhalm/pseuds/apfelhalm). 



> Thanks to Pax for proofing.

He knocks once and waits for a brief moment before he enters, only to come to a stop again soon after.

His friend lies there like a ghost: strawberry blond hair thin and tangled, freckled cheeks pale and sunken, the sickened body vanishingly slender within all the bedding.

“Friedrich.”

In response, he laboriously sits up and puts on a wan smile, only to be set upon by a coughing fit. That Friedrich reaches towards one of the handkerchiefs strewn across the bedside table, all of them flecked with blood, doesn’t escape Johann.

”You look like shit.”

Friedrich laughs and coughs (an unsettling combination of the two) before pointing to Johann. “I could say the same for you.”

He involuntarily draws his shabby dressing gown more tightly to himself, if only to hide his embarrassing hospital gown as well as the way his own body is shivering. “Psht. I’m already well on the way to recovery.”

”Goethe, my friend. It’s good to see you. How did you manage to give Vulpius[1] the slip?”

Johann drags himself to the bed, sits on the corner, and places his hand cautiously atop Friedrich’s. The skin is clammy and even colder than his own. “I have my ways.”

He’s rewarded with another thin smile for that and notices that Friedrich lets himself sink back into the pillows, exhausted.

”Good.” The “thanks” remains unspoken but doesn’t go unheard. Johann squeezes his hand.

”I’m begging you. You’re my –” My friend, my partner, my inspiration, so much more than that. “– my colleague. It’s the least I can do for you.”

There’s a soft snort. For a moment, Johann thinks he’s being laughed at. But then he recognizes what the regular in and out of Friedrich’s breathing really means: he’s about to doze off again.

Johann holds his hand tight until he’s sure that Friedrich’s finally fallen asleep. Only then (or maybe only after several deep breaths) does he bring himself to release his grip and stand up.

The room is small and spare just like his. Johann doesn’t need long to cross it. And that’s a good thing, because he becomes aware that this little walkabout has already exhausted him. So he pulls the room’s only chair next to the bed, and lets himself sink, trembling, into it to watch over Friedrich’s fitful sleep. Friedrich never had managed to sleep regularly at normal hours, but it’s gotten worse recently. The convulsions keep him awake.

And now this. Johann would pull himself back together soon, somehow, but Friedrich? His health was never the best, and maybe this is it, the straw that breaks - he doesn’t let himself finish the thought.

His gaze wanders to his sick friend. It’s hard to believe that this fragile man once climbed into a jaeger and took away the whole world’s breath.

But he had. And how.

***

Johann was still boarding one of the towering machines himself back when he first met Schiller. It was the heyday of the jaegers, the time when pilots were idolized like rock stars and lauded by journalists for all the papers whenever a new kaiju appeared from the ocean. Johann rode the wave of enthusiasm and lived the life of a real hotshot pilot.

Schiller belonged to the other camp - that is, to the fans, and it was painfully apparent. Goethe had read his essay, and it was a mixture of factual reporting and fictional narrative. Not bad, to be sure, but sprinkled with grandiose sentiments and too many political statements. In contrast, Goethe had been around long enough to have been jaded by it all for some time, and he found Schiller’s idealism offputting. The jaegers were essentially apolitical, and they didn’t give anyone the right to act like superstars, either. They were the sole means of survival.

”Mr. Goethe. Mr. Goethe!”

Johann hastened his steps out of sheer spitefulness. After all, it was _Lord Goethe_ , especially for just some no-name military doctor.

”Mr. –”

The sound of a scuffle broke out, and he turned around. Someone, probably one of the loitering soldiers, had tripped Schiller and made him stumble.

He was an odd duck, this Friedrich Schiller. He was pale and wore his strawberry blond hair in a short ponytail. His clothing showed visible signs of wear and seemed like it had been chosen randomly out of the laundry bin. That in itself wouldn’t have been a problem, but in spite of his slovenly appearance, he carried himself arrogantly and stiff-backed, and his eyes… his eyes shot sparks. Simply put, he was distinctive, and, as a rule, “distinctive” was never well received by soldiers.

Schiller gathered up the papers he had dropped, stuttering and muttering the whole time. Goethe rolled his eyes and continued away. He would see to it that this Schiller was taken back to the shore. He had no need for one of these fanatics here.

*

The tests were already in full swing when Goethe finally put in an appearance. The click and clack of the staves rang through the training hall, and he slipped in among the other observers just in time to witness one of the candidates hit the mat.”

“Five to zero.”

There was restrained chatter as the next candidate approached.

”How many was that just now?” Johann asked the woman with the clipboard, who was apparently overseeing everything.

He scanned the list. Herder, Wieland, von Lengen… all extremely promising talents. And all of them thrashed by Friedrich Schiller.

”And? See a trend already?”

Instead of answering, she tapped the clipboard with her pencil and nodded towards the middle of the room. The next bout began.

Of course he’d seen the news over the last couple years, the headlines, the interviews. From deserting military doctor to jaeger pilot! With pen and sword against the kaijus! (And with that they did mean a literal sword - the signature weapon of the jaeger Thalia[2].) Within a few years, Schiller had transformed himself from an untalented doctor to a famous pilot and writer.

It didn’t matter any more that Streicher[3] had been the other pilot of the jaeger and had done fifty percent of the work. Or that he had saved Schiller from a disciplinary proceeding by dragging him back to the Shatterdome. Schiller was the one who drove millions upon millions of clicks to his blog, The Horae[4], every day. Schiller was the one who penned provocative columns that were hotly debated on the internet for days.

And now Streicher was dead. Ripped right out of the operating machine by a kaiju, and all that the public would remember was the fact that Schiller the wunderkind had steered the Thalia the last meters towards the beach all by himself. Poor thing.

And yet. Johann couldn’t help but watch and think, it’s all true. Friedrich Schiller, the passionate genius, the master pilot. He’d pulled himself together over the last six years. He seemed less scattered and more focused, clearer. His strikes were the same - precise, sharp, and lightning quick. Charlotte of Lengen[5] hit the mat with a dull thump.

”Four to zero.”

And Schiller, the stuck up bastard, yawned, bored. Johann couldn’t help it: he laughed aloud.

”Lord Goethe!” The “lord” with particular emphasis. “Would you like to tell us what you find so amusing?”

In an instant, the attention of the whole room was on him. He didn’t let it faze him and took a step forward.

”What I find so amusing, Mr. Schiller? This here is no selection process. It’s a farce. You’re not even trying to find a new drift partner.”

A murmur ran through the room.

”I believe everyone here can testify otherwise. I have defeated each of my opponents.”

”Even so.” Schiller’s eyebrows shot up. “The test is not a competition. It is a dialogue. One would think that as an author, you’d know what that means.”

The whispering around them grew louder, but Johann didn’t pay any more attention to them. For him, there was only Friedrich Schiller and his flyaway hair, the flashing gaze trained upon him. Surprisingly, there was no annoyance in Schiller’s face – not really – just a certain kind of delight and curiosity.

”Very well.” Schiller stepped forward, picked up Charlotte’s staff and weighed it in his hand before extending it toward Johann. “Show me then.”

*

”Wait! Lord Goethe!”

The situation bore an ironic similarity to their first meeting, except that that this time the halls were empty and Johann had no pretext to ignore Schiller. He kept walking nonetheless.

”Now hold on a minute.”

A hand grabbed his wrist and he turned around. “Good God, what do you want?”

Breathless and wide-eyed, Schiller looked at him. Apparently, he’d closed the gap between them by running. He still wore the undershirt and track pants from before – he still had the staff in his hands.

”You know very well what.”

Johann grimaced. His skin felt tight and tingly, and it was the worst where Schiller had touched him. “You should go back to your test bouts.”

”The bouts are over. I’ve found my copilot.”

Johann wanted to laugh out loud like the in training hall. Instead the last several minutes played through his mind again. Strike, step forward, step back, strike, turn, the loud crack of wood on wood. It was like a dance – a dialogue like he’d already said – and they both knew what it meant.

After all, they’d both piloted a jaeger before.

Perhaps Johann had tried to suppress it, had wanted to throw Schiller off his rhythm with biting commentary, but Schiller countered with ease. So the staff duel became a duel of words as well, and that only made it worse. The air seemed thick with tension, and everyone there could see it: these two were drift compatible.

Johann balled his hands into fists. “No. I think not.”

”You noticed it too! The two of us – it works!”

”Forget it, Schiller. I haven’t been in a jaeger in years.”

You don’t just forget how to do that!”

”How should you know? And, more to the point, how do you imagine this working? Should I leave my new job just because you have to prove yourself to the world one more time?”

Schiller’s shoulders tightened and he finally, finally let Johann’s hand go. For a moment he thought that Schiller would drop it, but he started smiling instead.

”Ah, but it’s also your chance to show the world one more time. Just consider what we could achieve together! We could elevate the jaegers to a new fame! You and I, with your experience! Just imagine it!”

Yeah, you’d like that.

Back then, when it became clear that there were enough new replacement pilots, Johann had turned his back on the jaegers without looking back once. He’d had enough of them and everything that came with them to last him his whole life.

At least he’d thought so. But now here was this Schiller, standing in front of him, and the idea had a certain appeal to it: Schiller, the wunderkind, and Goethe, the living legend. A legend that no one had talked about for quite some time.

”One test. One drift. That’s all I ask.”

Schiller tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. Again, that look. Not much had changed in his bearing; he was still proud, still held his head high, and didn’t quite fit into the picture somehow. But his eyes… his eyes were soft. And in that moment, there was something so piercing in them, that Johann swallowed his hesitation and nodded in spite of himself. He would surely regret it, but…

”Alright then. One drift. No more.”

*

It had been years since the last time Goethe climbed aboard the Sturm and Drang, and a little bit longer yet since the last time she was operational. She was still a beauty – an old dame with fire and a nuclear atom in her heart under a blue-gold topcoat. The buzz, rumble, and whirr around her gave him the incomparable feeling of coming home.

”Who’d have thought we’d see each other again?” he murmured more to himself than anyone else as he testingly clenched and unclenched a fist. It was odd to put on the suit and halters again and, he had to admit, unpleasant. He’d become a sedate old geezer.

”It’ll work out marvelously, believe me!”

Schiller hung next to him in the halter and nodded at him enthusiastically. A strand of hair stuck to his face, and he looked pale, with deep shadows under his eyes, but his grin was still somewhat manic. Johann was pretty sure he couldn’t have slept more than a couple hours the previous night.

”Please concentrate!” He hissed. For a brief moment, he wondered whether it was too late to call the whole thing off, but the countdown already rang in their ears.

”-ven, six, five-”

“-five hundred wounded, and that isn’t counting those whom we still haven’t recovered.”

”Understood. Proceed.”

The medic nods and walks away briskly. As Johann watches him go, he notices blood flecked across the man’s jacket, and has to swallow hard. All around them, hellish chaos rages: men cry, scream, search despairingly for their loved ones, and the first layer of concrete dust hasn’t even settled - no more was needed for the majority of Sydney to lie in ruins.

It wasn’t his fight, but it is the first time that he’s been right at the scene of an attack. And it makes him think. How often had he destroyed homes because he fought too recklessly or was too late? How often had he dragged innocents to their death because they just hadn’t made it to bunker in time and he’d had to attack anyway?

In the distance he hears a man scream, first soft, then louder and louder. If he listens closely, he can almost understand it. It’s a word, a… name?

“-CHER! STREICHER!”

He’s in a Jaeger again - not his, he realizes in a short moment of clarity - but then it doesn’t matter anymore where he is because all he feels is pain, pain, pain. And a gaping hole where someone else must have been.

"Streicher!"

Schiller crumples, and with him the entire Jaeger. The Thalia has a giant hole in the cockpit through which the rain and wind pelted in. The harness for the second pilot is ripped half apart, the remaining tatters dangle sadly from the ceiling.

An inhuman noise fills the cockpit, a mixture of sobbing, retching, and a scream of rage. Johann needs a while for it to dawn on him that it’s Schiller, who has just got himself back upright.

He can’t say what’s keeping this man going. Perhaps it’s rage or sheer will to survive. Whatever it is that comes over to him from the Drift feels a little like everything at once.

With last of his power, Schiller rams the Thalia’s sword into the kaiju’s side. The beast’s death rattle is lost in the roiling of the sea and Schiller’s manic mumble: “... must keep going, one step, one more, keep going, keep going, keep…”

”...going, or should we stop? Goethe! Schiller! Your readings are going crazy!”

Johann gasped for air and found himself right back in the cockpit of the Sturm and Drang.

”Lord Goethe? Mr. Schiller?”

His throat was bone dry. He wasn’t sure if he could speak without betraying himself by a tremble in his voice. Someone had to say something, had to put a stop to all this, but - To his surprise, it was Schiller who broke the silence.

”End the test.” And then, quietly, “Please.”

When Johann looked to the side, he could just catch Schiller’s gaze: his eyes looked reddened and his cheeks were damp. He couldn’t say whether it was tears or sweat. But at the moment, Johann didn’t even care to know. He just wanted out of here.

*

It was shortly after midnight when his phone rang. After the disastrous Drift test, no one had dared to hold him back, and he had fled without a single word more. For a while he sprinted through the Shatterdome until exhaustion and the need for a shower drove him back to his room. Now he lay on his bed and feverishly scribbled threads of thoughts and half-baked poems in his notebook. He reached for his phone. Unknown number.

_No matter what you think you regret, no matter whether you demonize the fights: they are necessary._

There was no name under it, but he had a pretty inkling who had texted him. More forcefully than he had intended, he typed back: _Wars are never necessary. As long as they last, people are unhappy, and when they’re over, those who profited off them are unhappy._

_says the man whose jaeger manifesto drove thousands to buyblue and yellow uniforms and volunteer for active duty [6]._

And most of them died in the wars.

That could be. But this here, this is no war. Piloting the jaegers? That’s our duty to ensure humanity’s survival. Johann sighed.

_Where did you get my number?_

_Military register._

Johann dropped back onto his pillow. Didn’t this Schiller ever give up?

Our drift was a disaster. Even you must have noticed!

That’s because the connection was so strong. You weren’t prepared for it. Neither was I.

Johann considered whether he should actually send his next message, but he clicked enter anyway. He was curious. And if it put Schiller off him, all the better.

 _So you and Streicher, huh?_ Of course he had felt it, underneath all the despair and panic. It wasn’t the kind of loss you felt about just a good pal. For a few minutes he didn’t get anything back. Then: _yes_. That was it. He stared at it, realizing he had nothing to say to that. He could have dealt with evasive or aggressive responses, but not with simple openness.

 _Okay_ , he typed back.

_Does it bother you?_

_No._

_Good. So will you get back in the jaeger with me?_

And once more – though this time there was no sight of the fiery eyes that could have convinced him – Johann gave in.

_Yes._

*

The roar of the kaiju shook the cockpit. Automatically, Johann leaned forward against a resistance that he couldn’t actually feel.

”We’re out of ammo!” He observed, pointlessly. Schiller shot him a bitter look.

”If we had a sword… They don’t need ammo.”

”This isn’t the damned Thalia,” he snapped back, irritated. “So learn to fight with the weapons you’ve got!”

Some of his annoyance must have spilled over the drift because Schiller raised his eyebrows, but let the subject drop.

”The statue!” Schiller nodded in the direction of the marketplace and Johann got it. Together they brought the Sturm and Drang into a sprint past the kaiju, launched into a somersault directly over the statue and ripped it right out of the ground. As the Sturm and Drang slid back to its legs they launched back into a sprint, this time right at the kaiju.

The statue wasn’t really a statue – it was more a piece of abstract art that could’ve been perceived as a statue – but it was about 10 meters tall and, most importantly, damned sharp. It was enough to break through the armor of the kaiju as the Sturm and Drang drove into the space between the kaiju’s throat and shoulder with full force. Neon blue blood sprayed everywhere and the earth shook as the kaiju crumpled to the ground before them.

”That… wasn’t half bad,” Johann heard himself say, and it was surely his perplexed tone that set Schiller off.

”Don’t act so surprised! That wasn’t even our first battle!”

”Yes! And it’s a miracle we survived our first!”

To be precise, they had been severely beat up and destroyed half of a city in the process. But at some point, when the Sturm and Drang was lying on the ground and Johann’s head was pounding in agony, and he yelled “pull yourself together, man,” at the same time Schiller roared “over my dead body, this thing wins”, in that moment they clicked together and went into gear.

Images of the battle flashed back and forth between them and mixed with the battle they had just completed. And under that, an all encompassing high, adrenaline, triumph. Johann couldn’t say whose feeling it was - Schiller’s or his or both - but that didn’t matter. He grinned at Schiller and earned an equally bright smile.

“This calls for a celebration,” said Schiller as they steered the Sturm and Drang back towards the troops. “Your place, tonight? I’ll bring wine.”

... And that’s how, not even three hours later, Johann found himself eye to eye with a frazzled Schiller, a bottle of red wine, and two glasses that he’d presumably managed to sneak out of the stores.

”I’d rather not ask how you got your hands on that.”

”A lady never asks, and a gentleman never tells, etcetera, etcetera,” said Schiller as he poured right up to the top of the glasses and one overflowed. He seemed to consider for a moment, then raised his glass: “To the Sturm and Drang!”

Johann took a moment himself, then tapped his glass against Schiller’s, smirked, and replied: “To the Sturm and Draaank!” The clink of their glasses was lost beneath their laughter.

”Are you already working on your next publication, Schiller?”

Johann had just showered. Schiller, on the other hand, looked as though he’d simply discarded his fatigues and stumbled in front of his door. But, if he was being honest, that was how Schiller looked half the time: always a wrinkled shirt that was partly untucked, pale cheeks, always a murmured soundbite for his next blog post on his lips.

”To be exact: yes. I have this project, well, more like an idea at the moment, but I’d like to document the appearance of the kaijus for posterity, you see? Everything from the first attack to today’s battles.”

Schiller launched into a monologue about all the events he wanted to investigate as part of his project. His cheeks glowed with enthusiasm and for the first time, Johann noticed that he had freckles. Friedrich Schiller had freckles. Hm.

”But enough about me. You write too, don't you?” Johann choked on his wine. He did write, or, rather, he used to. It was a while since he had published his last essay, and nothing he had touched since then seemed to get off the ground.

”Well, there is something I’m working on, but –”

”Show me,” Schiller commanded, and despite the giddiness in his voice, there was something strangely demanding in his tone. “Or even better, read it aloud to me. I find that you can analyze a text much better when you hear it spoken.”

Johann hesitated. The Elegies weren’t exactly the sort of thing that he’d want to just read out to his co-pilot or anyone.

”Maybe another time…” Schiller looked so disappointed that he quickly added, “but I have something else I need your opinion on.”

The spark of interest returned in Schiller’s eyes. “Well, then hit me!”

”Yeah, yeah, just a minute,” he called on the way to his desk, where he began to rummage around in his papers. “But first I need another glass of wine!”

*

_Read your most recent draft. Not bad! But the third paragraph still hasn’t gelled somehow. You need to work on that._

_I know. But I wanted to send it to you anyway. And what’s going on with you? When do I get to read the Elegies?_

_Soon. I’m still missing –_

”–ann! Johann!”

Fingers snapped in front of his nose, and he looked up. An annoyed Christiane Vulpius looked from his face, to his phone, and back to his face.

”Your readings are crap,” she said, gruffly yanking the cuff off his arm. “Blood pressure, blood count… how are your headaches?”

”They come and go.” Johann shrugged. His phone vibrated, but Christiane snatched it away before he could see what Schiller had written. “Hey! Give that back!”

”Once you listen to me.”

”I am listening!”

”Have you followed any bit of my advice? Taken your vitamins? Drunk less? Slept more? Listening – don’t make me laugh!”

”You’re hot when you’re pissed off.” He said with a grin.

“Oh, don’t use that line on me. We’re not together anymore, but as your trusted doctor, I have to say that I’m worried about you. To say nothing at all of Schiller. It’s a miracle he can still get inside a jaeger.”

“That was always the case.”

”That doesn’t make it any better!” She snapped. “The two of you are still jaeger pilots. But instead, you two are burning the candle at both ends, you’re always browsing his blog, and you both keep getting into feuds with other bloggers. Everyone can hear your cackling all the way through the hall.”

The phone hummed again. Johann glanced at it wistfully. With a resigned “hmph,” Christiane pressed the phone into his hand.

”The two of you are beyond help.” From the corner of his eye, he saw her walk to her desk and scribble a note in his file.

( _Admit it: you’re afraid to show me the Elegies._

_That’s not true.)_

“The only thing worse than a writer slash jaeger pilot is two writer slash jaeger pilots who are in love.”

... hang on, what? Johann looked up from his phone. “It’s not –“ He waved his hand around vaguely. “... like that.”

Christiane’s eyebrows shot up, and she pursed her lips to a thin line – a sure sign that she thought he was completely full of nonsense. “Ever since he moved into the room across from yours, it’s been the talk of the Shatterdome. The media are toasting you as the new jaeger power couple. And have you even listened to yourself, the way you praise him to the high heavens?”

He blinked at Christiane. Was that really the impression they gave?

Sure, Schiller had moved into the room across the way, but that was just so that they could collaborate more often and more easily. And the blog? Well, it wasn’t as though it would write itself, and Johann was a guest author and he had dozens of new ideas for posts. And perhaps he did occasionally pass out in Schiller’s room from sheer exhaustion and not return to his own room until the next morning. And maybe sometimes when Schiller had a weak spell he was the first to offer him a supporting arm. But anyone would do that… right?

(And, okay, there was that something in their drift. An undertone he couldn’t quite put his finger on and that didn’t quite fit into the harmony of the whole. A kind of… singsong. Longing. But Johann wrote that off as an echo of the long-gone Streicher. What else should it be?)

“That’s not so,” he repeated with even less wit.

”Mm-hmm,” hummed Christiane as she turned back to her papers.

Johann’s phone buzzed.

*

“Say, are you even listening to me?”

Johann was startled out of his train of thought – and was startled once more to realize how close Schiller was to him. Their noses weren’t even a hand’s width apart (Johann could count the freckles) and Schiller was raising his eyebrows skeptically.

”Earth to Goethe!”

”Yeah, yeah, it’s fine.” He unconsciously pushed his chair back a little. “I was just lost in thought.”

”I noticed. What’s up with you today?”

”Nothing. It’s – there’s just something I’m preoccupied with.”

”Which is?”

There was a good question. Was it that he hadn’t been able to shake the thought of his discussion with Christiane? This question. This possibility. (What if it was true? What if something had developed over all that time and he simply hadn’t noticed?) And that the idea always seemed better to him the more he dwelled on it? Schiller and Goethe, Goethe and Schiller. Until this afternoon, it would never have occurred to him, but now it made all the sense in the world. With Schiller – Friedrich – his fingertips tingled, his thoughts raced, everything was all words and feeling. It could be easy to ascribe that all to their drift compatibility, but Johann knew now that it was more.

”I…” He began and then paused. “I have part of the Elegies done. But there is still this one part that’s just killing me.”

Schiller’s eyes lit up. “Maybe I can help out?”

”I think you could at that.”

Johann stood up and hurried to his desk. He could feel a blush spreading across his cheeks as he dug around the drawer looking for his notebook. Schiller would surely think he was crazy, but what else should he do? Their last drift was several weeks ago, but that didn’t mean the next kaiju wouldn’t enter the ring tomorrow. It just just a matter of time until the drift laid Johann’s thoughts bare.

”It’s a series of poems, you see,” he explained, clearing his throat. He flipped through to the right page. Poetry – oh yes. And some were downright sappy. He’d started the series after returning to the Shatterdome from a posting in Italy[7]. He’d longed to go back. That was before Schiller had hounded him back into a jaeger and made his world exciting once more.

”You’re killing me with the suspense here.”

Johann nodded. Originally, the lines of the poem were addressed to a nameless woman[8], but he decided to swap out “she” for “he”, and began to read aloud. At first he read hesitantly, but soon, he threw all caution to the wind.

“... and do I not tutor myself, by gazing upon the shape  
Of his lovely back, by stroking a hand along his hips?  
Then I truly understand marble for the first time: I think and compare  
Gaze with a grasping eye, grasp with a gazing hand.  
If my beloved absconds with hours of my days,  
He gives hours of the night to me in recompense.  
As much as we kiss, we also talk reason,  
And when sleep takes him, I lie there and reflect.  
Often, I’ve composed poems in his arms  
And counted out the rhythm of a hexameter with my fingers  
Along his back –”

He peeked over his notebook and froze. The look in Schiller’s eyes was inscrutable, but Johann swore the corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. There was something in his eyes – desire? Maybe it was just the shimmering of the lights.

”What is it?”

Schiller chuckled softly. “It’s just… I was wondering if you want to do that on _my_ back.”

Johann exhaled. In this time and place, the answer fell so easily from his lips. “Yes, I think I do.”

“Good.” Schiller’s smile was small and mischievous as he brushed a few strands of red hair back from his forehead. “I thought we were never going to have this conversation.”

Johann would’ve been ticked off if he weren’t so relieved. “Is that supposed to mean that you’ve known the whole time and just haven’t said anything?”

“We’re co-pilots. And I know what’s like to share a drift with someone that you… Well.” Schiller shrugged.

Streicher. Yes, of course, that explained it. “And what’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

”It means what it means. The only thing that matters is that it’s there, right?” said Schiller with another shrug. “Drift or attraction, lust or the true meeting of souls. What does it matter what you call it?”

Johann sensed what he was getting at. “At least in some things, words aren’t enough.”

Schiller nodded and for a moment they simply gazed at each other.

”But tell me this one thing,” said Schiller, finally, with a grin. “The Elegies. Are you really stuck or was that just something you said to court me?”

”Well, did it work? The courtship?” Johann joked.

“What do you think?”

“I think the spot with the hexameter isn't quite there, and there are couple things I’d like to build in –”

The scratch of a chair on the floor interrupted him. Schiller had risen and was standing in front of him. The mischievous smile was back.

”Don’t tell me. Show me,” Schiller whispered in his ear, taking away the notebook and dropping it carelessly to the floor behind him. Johann would’ve protested, but soon his lips and hands were too busy showing Schiller just what he had planned next for the Elegies.

*

“Was last night too much for you? This really isn’t up to your usual standard.”

Friedrich grinned, letting his staff spin once in the air before catching it neatly and resuming his combat stance. Unimpressed, Johann did the same.

The fact of the matter was, they’d both had better days. Friedrich’s footwork was sloppy, and his attacks were slightly delayed. For his part, Johann had awoken with a pounding headache, and his stomach had hurt since lunchtime. Maybe he had caught some kind of bug. But as long as Christiane didn’t drag him forcibly into the clinic, he’d never admit it.

“What’s up, old man?” Friedrich took a quick step forward. Johann took advantage of the moment to whip his staff around to strike Friedrich in the back of his knees and bring him to his feet.

“Four to three,” he crowed, leaning on his staff. “Not bad for an old man, eh?”

”That was pure luck.”

”One percent luck, nine percent masterful skill, and ninety percent failure on your part.”

Friedrich gave him a wounded look.

“Come on, on your feet.” Johann reached out a hand to pull him up, ignoring the pounding in his temples.

Hm. He paused to stretch out his hand and rub it against the leg of his pants.

“What’s wrong?”

“Strange. My hand is numb.”

He rubbed his fingertips together, but the feeling – or rather, the lack of feeling - remained. Maybe he’d taken a hit from Friedrich that hadn’t registered. Maybe he’d stop by to see Christiane after all.

“Ready?”

He nodded, and Schiller’s next onslaught began before Johann had even managed to get into his stance. The strikes rained down, fast and merciless, and each loud clack of their staves drove a spike right through his head.

“Accept it. You’re an old man!” Friedrich jeered as he aimed a strike at Johann’s torso.

“Accept it – you just haven’t grown to my level!”

He dodged the blow, but then the world began to shake all around him. He took two, three steps back, before he toppled backwards and stumbled to the mat. From far away, he heard Friedrich laugh (“you _are_ an old man!”). In the next moment, he felt like his stomach was about to tear itself apart. Someone made a strangled noise (maybe a whimper or else the helpless retching of someone who could no longer speak for the pain).

Friedrich’s face entered his field of vision, surrounded by his strawberry blonde hair. With the lights shining through his hair, it looks like it was made of fire: a blazing halo for a wild angel or a heavenly Mephistopheles.

Johann wanted to laugh at the ridiculous thought, but he was far too occupied with screaming, screaming, screaming.

“... Johann! Johann! Jo –”

*

“Johann. What are you doing here?”

Christiane stands in the door with a tablet in her hand and an exhausted look on her face. But her voice is gentle nonetheless.

“What it look like? I’m visiting him.”

“You shouldn’t be here. You’re not out of the red yourself.”

“I shouldn’t be anywhere but here!” he snaps as an inexplicable rage rises in him followed by another dizzy spell.

In a few steps, Christiane is at his side, laying a hand on his forehead and feeling his pulse. She purses her lips, but he shakes his head at her tiredly.

“I’m going to see to him, but then I’m taking you right back to your own room,” she said with a sigh as she put her tablet on the nightstand.

Johann doesn’t have to sneak a peek at it to know what’s on it. It’s the same diagnosis as his: insidious kaiju blue poisoning. Leaks in the tanks with kaiju specimens and ventilation that went straight from the laboratories to Friedrich’s room while he – while they both – spent hours there. They’d breathed in too much of the tainted damp for too long, becoming more and more sick. And no one noticed until Johann collapsed. It got to Friedrich, too, within just one week.

“His vitals are stable at the moment.” The gentle weight of Christiane’s hand is on Johann’s shoulder. “Come on. I’ll bring you back.”

He strokes his thumb over the back of Friedrich’s hand then reluctantly lets go of Friedrich’s hand. He lets Christiane help him up. The way back lasts an eternity – at least, it takes longer than the way there.

“Christiane?” He asks once he’s in bed and she’s already halfway out the door. “You’ll keep me in the loop? If something changes?”

He doesn’t want to say “if it gets worse,” even if it’s more accurate to Friedrich’s condition. Christiane understands him; the corner of her mouth twitches into a sympathetic smile and she nods. Then he’s alone with his thoughts and the ceiling he’s been staring at for weeks now.

They’ve been in the medical bay for far too long and Johann’s tired of everything. Not just the doctors and the embarrassing hospital gowns, but also the jaegers and Shatterdome. He feels old and tired for reasons far more numerous than his health. There’s nothing he’d like to do more than to just abscond with Friedrich and disappear somewhere together.

He can’t help but think of his time in Italy: the food, the nature that inspired him so. And he thinks of what good the Italian sun would do Friedrich and how he’d like to explore the rhythms of more poems on his back.

 _Know what?_ He types on his phone just before falling asleep. _As soon as this is all over, I’ll show you Italy._

(It’s dark – early in the morning or late at night, depending on one’s perspective – when he hears the people calling to each other. Upset, serious voices, people rushing through the halls, doors pushed open and slammed shut. The curtain of noise presses into his ear and his consciousness like a far away dream, and he feels like he’s in a waking dream himself. A dream that just grazes against his mind doesn’t add up to much in the larger scheme of his sleep. For a fraction of a second, he tries to move but his limbs are so heavy, heavy, heavy...

It doesn’t take long for the commotion to subside, and when the silence returns, so does Johann’s sleep.)

Christiane looks absolutely beat when she comes to check on him in the morning. Johann can’t hold back his question.

“There was quite a commotion at the nurses’ station yesterday, wasn’t there?”

She pauses like she’s been caught out and stares at her tablet in deep concentration before nodding. “Mmhm.”

Johann’s known her long enough to recognize the quick blink and her chewing her bottom lip as her nervous tells.

His fingertips start to tingle and for a split second he thinks the poison numbness is back. But from the iron ring that fastens around his neck and makes it hard to breathe, it’s clear that this is fear.

“Christiane?” For a moment both a question and its answer are on his lips (Schiller was sick yesterday, wasn’t he?), but he swallows it down and lets himself sink back into his pillows. “Til later.”

“Til later,” she replies, and her smile is a small and broken thing that’s still before his eyes even after she’s out the door.

He rolls onto his side, rests a hand on his stomach and tries to ignore the hollow feeling inside. His gaze falls on the phone on his bedside, which hasn’t rung since yesterday.

_You know what? As soon as this is all over, I’ll show you Italy._

That text still shows as unread, but that’s okay. Once Friedrich wakes up, he’ll get an answer.

For sure.

 

 

* * *

 

1Let's also take "give the slip" here to mean, "so I see that, through the power of slash, Christiane Vulpius isn't your mistress/eventual wife anymore." Cute meta joke. [return to text]

2 The Thalia was a political/literary newspaper that Schiller ran while was working at the theater in Mannheim. He serialized some of his own works in it. [return to text]

3 This refers to Andreas Streicher, a very close boyhood chum of Schiller's. Streicher made pianos for a living and did also compose a little, but his connection to Schiller is the most notable thing about him. Well, Beethoven did purchase one of his pianos, so I guess there's that, too. [return to text]

4 Where the Thalia had middling success, The Horae was Schiller's actual hit newspaper. It's credited with helping to jump-start an entire literary movement, The Weimar Classic (of which Schiller and Goethe are the most prominent authors). It also had some pretty notable authors other than Schiller contributing to it like the philosopher Herder (best known for his work on folk literature - he's a precursor to the Brothers Grimm), August Wilhelm Schlegel (helped popularize Shakespeare went on to become a major cornerstone in German/European Romanticism), Friedrich Jacobi (an Enlightenment-hating philosopher who was at the center of one of the most hilariously tragic philosophical scandals ever), and, of course, Goethe, among others. [return to text]

5 Way to deck your IRL wife, Schiller. [return to text]

6 Goethe's The Sorrows of Young Wether was one of the first international bestsellers and also a very, very early example of fan culture. No joke. It's about a disturbingly sensitive young man who whines about falling in love with a married woman and cannot shut up about certain poets to save his damned life. In the end, Werther dresses up in his spiffiest blue and yellow outfit, borrows a gun from the woman's husband, and shoots himself. (My headcanon is that the woman he's in love with knows damn well what he's intending when she gives him the guns.) Lots of people decided to cosplay Werther with the blue and yellow (seriously, the ensemble was actually referred to as "Werther outfit", it was that distinctive) and a handful of people decided to kill themselves like Werther too. This drove Goethe to make some additions to subsequent editions of the book that would make it clear that 1) Werther is not a well person, and 2) suicide isn't the way to solve your problems. [See also this lovely comic on the theme by Kate Beaton](http://www.harkavagrant.com/index.php?id=228). She's a gem. [return to text]

7 One of the most hilarious things Goethe ever did was ghosting from his government job and traveling around Italy under a pseudonym for a bit. This may seem irresponsible, and it super was, but you try standing between Goethe and his (ahem) beloved antique art. [return to text]

8 As a matter of fact, the "Roman Elegies" were dedicated to Vulpius, whom he met shortly after his return to Germany. D'aaaw. Fun fact, several of the poems were considered a scooch too steamy for publication in the 18th century. But, goodness, who can blame Goethe - I mean, he was inspired by Roman statues, after all. [return to text]

**Author's Note:**

> So, Schiller died of tuberculosis.  
> In a note completely unrelated to the contents of this fic, but deeply, deeply fascinating: Schiller’s skull is missing. At this moment. No one is sure where it is.  
> Also unrelated, but slightly less so, Goethe wrote a poem about Schiller’s skull: the fantastically named “Lines on Seeing Schiller’s Skull,” which contains a bit that’s generally translated thus:  
>  __  
> Mysterious vessel! Oracle how dear!  
>  Even to grasp thee is my hand too base,  
> Except to steal thee from thy prison here
> 
> I’m not suggesting that Goethe ever stole Schiller’s skull (j/k, I am 100% suggesting he did just that), but it’s a weird little poem. In any case, Schiller’s skull is missing to this day, but his (empty) coffin is cuddled up next to Goethe’s (no, I’m really not sure how literal I’m being there, but I invite you to join me in imagining that I am indeed being very literal).  
> Update, May 2017  
> I'm in Weimar now and happy to report that _reality is exactly as literal as my imagination._


End file.
